


If I Never Met You

by openmoments



Category: Football - Fandom, La Liga - Fandom, real madrid
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmoments/pseuds/openmoments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sometimes Mesut thinks about what his life would be like if he'd never kicked a football.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Never Met You

**Author's Note:**

> Written because [](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/profile)[**cagedlight**](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/) was having issues writing her paper. And I missed writing fic. Or something. 

**Title:** If I Never Met You  
 **Fandom/Pairing:** Real Madrid - Mesut  Özil/Sami Khedira  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Author:** [](http://onyxexistance.livejournal.com/profile)[**onyxexistance**](http://onyxexistance.livejournal.com/) /[](http://openmoments.livejournal.com/profile)[ **openmoments**](http://openmoments.livejournal.com/)  
 **Spoilers:** \--  
 **Word Count:** 917  
 **Summary:** "Sometimes Mesut thinks about what his life would be like if he'd never kicked a football.  
 **Disclaimers:** Do not own/not mine/would not be writing fic/etc.   
 **Prompt:** \--   
 **Author's Notes:** Written because [](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/profile)[**cagedlight**](http://cagedlight.livejournal.com/) was having issues writing her paper. And I missed writing fic. Or something. 

 

  


Sometimes Mesut thinks about what his life would be like if he’d never kicked a football. If, instead of spending his days in the _affenkäfig_ , he had done something else. He never gets to what that something else is, because that’s not the important part. The important part is that he doesn’t end up _here. Here_ on the pitch. _Here_ with the ball between his feet. _Here_ in the Bernabéu. _Here_ with everyone. (And somewhere along the line, ‘everyone’ translates into ‘Sami’.) 

He tries, sometimes. He lays back in bed, closes his eyes until he sees little pin pricks of light against his lids and wonders what he’d be, what he’d be doing. He knows he’d probably still be in Germany, knows he’d probably have a girlfriend, maybe a wife. A job, a _traditional_ job. 

Or he’ll pause, in the middle of practice and wonder if maybe he’s dreaming and gets a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach that, at any given point, he’s going to wake up. That he’ll open his eyes and be in a room that is and isn’t his. He shakes it off and pushes that much harder, prays that if that’s the case, he’ll never wake up.

He tells Sami this, slowly and quietly while they’re on the bench. He says it more as a question, than as a statement, “Sometimes I wonder what I’d be if I wasn’t a footballer?” and Sami looks at him with those eyes. Big, brown, warm, home. Sami doesn’t say anything, nods his head, let’s him sort out his thoughts as he fiddles with the laces of his boots.

He looks up ahead, looks at the pitch, where Iker and Sergio roll around on the ground as practice ends and he knows Iker probably said something about Sergio’s hair. He smiles when he sees them, Sergio’s hair blinking in and out of the sun as they wrestle, the others shaking their heads and laughing until someone’s ankle is grabbed and suddenly Pepe and Marcelo are (once again, as per usual, not surprisingly) running and grabbing for each other until Marcelo gets Pepe in a head lock and Cris has been pulled into the tussle on the ground, the laments about _his_ hair heard even to the bench. 

Sami pulls him back to their conversation, a hand on the back of his neck and he turns to look at him, feels his throat constrict because the blow, the sudden realization of never meeting Sami hits him.

“Things are meant to happen,” Sami says, the smile quirking on the edge of his mouth kind and reassuring. He rubs his thumb against the back of his neck and Mesut leans into it.

“You were meant to be a footballer. There’s nothing, _nothing_ , and nowhere, else you could be,” and he says it with such certainty that Mesut believes him. Believes him under no uncertain terms and when Sami pushes his forehead against his own, he closes his eyes and tries to burn the feel of it into his mind. 

Just like he files away the way Sami fiercely, possessively whispers hoarsly, “You’re mine,” into his ear, hot and breathy before he kisses him messily, hands dragging down his sides, blunt nails leaving pale red lines down his sides, before hand hand pulls back on his hair and his mouth moves down to his neck, to where his Adam’s apple is dancing, and his eyes slide shut as Sami licks a stripe down to his collar bone. 

He doesn’t know when it started, how it started, but it when it did, it felt like first time he tentatively kicked a football. It had been accidental, but the moment it happened, he knew that that was what he was meant to do. That that was the purpose he’d been born for. 

That’s what it felt like when he had first pushed Sami up against the wall, half sick with longing and wanting and not realizing what he’d done until after he’d done it and then plunging in all the way. He’d stood up on the top of his toes, chanced a look at Sami for half a second before closing his eyes and the distance between them with all the want he had building up inside of himself. 

Now....now when the moments arise when he wonders _what if?_ and is scared that it is all just a dream and that he’s going to wake up and lose it all (the football, the pitch, the Bernabéu, the Spanish, his team, _Sami_ ) he can hear, “You were meant to be a footballer,” and Sami’s smile and knows that he, out of anyone, wouldn’t lie to him. 

Sami’s arm tightens around him during the middle of the night sometimes, and he wonders if, maybe, Sami sometimes has the same fear. The fear that, somewhere, up above, a god make a mistake and at any given time, they’ll realize it and fix it. The worst part would be not remembering. Any of it, all of it. 

So he wiggles around, places his hand flat against Sami’s face, eyebrows drawn together over top of his nose, and places his forehead against Sami’s.

“You were meant to be here. You were meant to be with me,” he whispers and as he falls asleep, he can hear the sound of that football rolling up to his feet, he can remember the way he stared at it for a moment, before knowing exactly what to do. 

  



End file.
